


Chicken Soup for the Melodramatic Soul

by yodepalma



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:15:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23299939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodepalma/pseuds/yodepalma
Summary: “I heard you’re sick.” Cor’s voice is as dry as ever. Clarus glares up at him.“I’m not sick,” he says. “I’mdying.”
Relationships: Clarus Amicitia & Cor Leonis
Comments: 2
Kudos: 41





	Chicken Soup for the Melodramatic Soul

**Author's Note:**

> I found this sitting on my computer so I figured I'd just....post it.

Clarus blows his nose for the hundredth time in the past hour, wondering if _this_ is the way he dies. He’d always imagined he’d fall in a fight at Regis’s side, but he supposes this is ironically appropriate. Trapped in bed by the plague and incapable of so much as taking care of his _own children_.

He doesn’t even look up when his bedroom door swings open. If someone is here to rob him blind and murder him, he thinks he’ll just let them do it. It’d be better than putting up with _this_.

“I heard you’re sick.” Cor’s voice is as dry as ever. Clarus glares up at him.

“I’m not sick,” he says. “I’m _dying_.”

“You’re not dying.” Cor walks over and puts his hand on Clarus’s forehead. “Do you have a thermometer?”

Clarus does not sulk. He’s the king’s shield and he’s too old and dignified for _sulking_. “Probably in the bathroom,” he mutters, or at least it’s what he means to say. He’s so congested he’s not sure he can hear his own voice. “But who cares what my temperature will be when I die?”

Cor _rolls his eyes_ , because apparently he’s not too old for such gestures. Brat. “Don’t go anywhere,” he says, as if Clarus’s head doesn’t swim angrily when he tries to get out of bed. Then Cor leaves the room, presumably to get the aforementioned thermometer, and Clarus leans back in bed and sighs. It turns into a coughing fit that hurts so bad he wonders if he’s cracked a rib.

Cor comes back at the end of it, thermometer and some sort of liquid medicine in hand. He holds the thermometer out with a warning glare that says if Clarus doesn’t use it himself, he’ll _make_ him do it.

Clarus manages another half second of glaring before he takes it. He _still_ thinks this is pointless, but it’s better than getting into a fight.

The thermometer beeps within the minute, and Cor snatches it from Clarus’s mouth before Clarus even moves his hand. He stares at it with the same expression he stares at everything, and then he sighs.

“It’s just a cold, Clarus. You barely have a fever.”

Clarus reaches for another tissue. “Liar,” he says, and blows his nose.

Cor _almost_ smiles. “I’m going to make some soup,” he says. “Don’t die until you’ve eaten it.”

He walks out without another word, and Clarus strongly considers throwing his tissue after him. Some friend _he_ is.


End file.
